SURVIVORS - A Bucky Barnes FanFiction

Before

"The war continues to ravage Europe. But help is on the way! Every able-bodied young man is lining up to serve his country. Meanwhile, overseas, our brave boys are showing the Axis powers that the price is never too high. Together with Allied forces, we'll face any threat, no matter the size!"

I find myself staring at the screen playing the familiar videotape, each repetition sending shivers down my spine.  I can't imagine what all those men are going through. The recruitment facility is awfully quiet today, but I can't blame any man for not wanting to sign up. The possibility of not coming home these days is awfully big, especially for those ordered to the front lines. My father would be able to tell, his 3 week old ghost still haunting me at night. Mom hasn't eaten in days. Home doesn't offer comfort as it use to anymore, so I bury myself in the labs, taking extra shifts as a doctor at the recruitment facility to escape my thoughts. It's moments like these, alone and quiet, where the loneliness hits me most.

The sound of the door opening pulls my attention away from the pile of paperwork on my desk. A man steps inside, his presence commanding even before he speaks. He's tall—close to six feet—with broad shoulders that fill out his neatly pressed uniform. His dark hair is combed back, but a few rebellious strands fall across his forehead, softening the sharpness of his jawline. And then there are his eyes—piercing blue, like the sky after a summer storm, sharp enough to hold anyone's gaze.

I stand, smoothing my skirt as he approaches.

"Afternoon," he greets, his voice warm, with a touch of curiosity.

"Good afternoon, sir," I reply, offering a polite smile. "Are you here to enlist?"

He nods, glancing around the room briefly before his eyes land back on me. There's something unreadable in his expression, as though he's sizing me up. I hand him a clipboard with the enlistment form. "If you could fill this out, I'll take it from there. Booth seven is open for your pre-assessment."

His brow arches as he looks at me. "Pre-assessment? Aren't the doctors supposed to handle that?" I maintain my composure, used to this sort of skepticism. "That's why I'm here," I reply evenly. His eyes narrow slightly, but there's no hostility, just curiosity. "You're the doctor?"

"I am."

He studies me for a moment, then nods, his lips quirking into the faintest hint of a smile. "Good to know I'm in capable hands." Something in his tone makes me pause. It's not quite patronizing, not quite teasing—more like genuine interest mixed with surprise. Before I can say anything, he continues, "You'll have to forgive me. It's just not every day you see someone like you doing this sort of work."

"And by 'someone like me,' you mean...?" I ask, arching an eyebrow. He chuckles softly, holding his hands up in surrender. "Someone who clearly knows what they're doing but doesn't look like they've spent the last ten years behind a desk." I relax slightly, a small smile tugging at my lips. "Well, I assure you, I'm more than qualified. Now, if you'd like to head to booth seven, I'll be with you shortly."

He nods, but not before flashing me a smugly amused look—like I'm a puzzle he's already decided he wants to solve.

A few minutes later, I step into the booth, clipboard in hand. He's seated on the exam table, his uniform jacket folded neatly on the chair beside him. His shirt sleeves are rolled up, revealing strong forearms. He looks up as I enter, and for a second, I feel the weight of his gaze settle on me. "You're thorough," he remarks, gesturing to the clipboard in my hand and all the equitment already layed out on the table.

"Always," I reply, closing the curtain behind me. "Attention to detail is important in this line of work." His lips curve into a smirk. "Guess I'll have to be on my best behavior, then." I ignore the comment, though the warmth in his tone shows he means no harm. As I approach, I notice the faintest edge of tension in his posture—like he's bracing himself for the inevitable prodding and poking.

"Relax," I say, placing the stethoscope against his chest. "I read you're file and no needles will be needed. I just need to check your hearbeat and breathing." His heartbeat is steadies, though it quickens slightly when my fingers brush against his chest. I glance up, catching the flicker of something in his expression—surprise, maybe? Amusement?

Whatever it is, it lingers as I step back to jot down my notes. "You're good at this," he says suddenly. I look up, startled by the sincerity in his voice. "I'd hope so," I reply lightly. "It's my job, after all." "Yeah, but... you're different," he says, his tone softer now. "You don't treat this like a routine. You actually... care." I pause, caught off guard by his observation. "Well, I do," I admit, meeting his gaze. "You'd be surprised how much of a difference that makes." He says, his smirk fading into something more genuine.

For a moment, neither of us speaks. The silence is comfortable, but charged, like the air before a storm. Finally, I clear my throat and step back. "You're good to go, Mr. Barnes. Welcome to the army." He stands, reaching for his jacket. "Call me Bucky," he says, flashing me a grin that's as cocky as it is disarming. "That's what my friends call me."

I tilt my head, considering him for a moment. "Your friends?" I ask. "That's right," he replies, the grin widening. "And I don't mind making a new one today." I raise an eyebrow, refusing to fall into the easy rhythm of his flirtation. "Well, James," I say deliberately, watching his smirk falter ever so slightly, "I think I'll stick with your given name. Feels more fitting for what we're doing here, don't you think?" He blinks, caught off guard for a moment, then recovers with a soft chuckle. "Only my parents and my commanding officer call me James," he teases, leaning in slightly. "You sure you're not trying to keep me in line?" "Someone has to," I respond, keeping my expression neutral despite the warmth creeping up my cheeks. His grin widens. "And what about you? What do I call the woman who insists on being the exception?"

"Y/n," I answer simply, catching the flicker of intrigue in his eyes. "Y/n," he whispers, as though testing how it feels on his tongue. "Nah, I think I'll call you Red." I blink, caught off guard. "Red? Why? And please, don't say because of my hair."

His gaze drops, lingering on the heat blooming across my cheeks, before meeting my eyes again. "Well, there are the obvious reasons," he teases, pointing vaguely at my blushing face. "But mostly, you've got a spark. Feisty, fiery... It fits." I arch a brow, fighting a smile. "You're stretching it, Barnes." "Maybe," he says with a shrug, his grin still firmly in place. "But it fits." I roll my eyes, though I can't quite hide my smile.

"Now, just... come back in one piece, alright?" I say, my voice softening despite the professionalism I'm trying to maintain. Bucky pauses, a flicker of sincerity crossing his features. "I'll do my best, ma'am," he murmurs, his voice low. His teasing tone resurfaces almost instantly, a playful glint lighting up his eyes. "Wouldn't want to disappoint someone with such high expectations." I roll my eyes but can't resist adding, "If you manage that, maybe I'll even buy you a drink to celebrate."

He grins, the kind of grin that feels like it could light up a room. "Save me a seat at the pub," he says, his tone casual but carrying an deeper meaning of sincerity that lingers in the air. I blink, caught slightly off guard by how his words seem to land heavier than they should. "I'll think about it," I reply, fighting back a small smile.

As he steps out of the booth, his laughter echoes behind him—warm, rich, and oddly comforting. Left alone, I find myself staring at the empty space where he'd been, with the faint scent of his cologne and the undeniable feeling that I've just met someone I won't easily forget.